Family

What I look for when I go into schools is the butch lesbians on staff.  Generally, there is at least one, sometimes two.  They’re extremely readable in all the ways you imagine – hair, clothes, subject area (hello PE teachers, I’m talking to you).  And while I may get some lip from the kids, these teachers sometimes don’t.  As I mentioned in a previous post, they become part of the furniture.  Their reputation, after a year or two is all that students in the school.  And when kids come is as fresh faced 12 year olds, they take the lead from the older kids.  That’s not to say they have a good run of it, but sometimes it’s easier when you’re taken for granted.

I, of course, love seeing them.  In the sea of uber hetro teachers and kids, seeing a queer teacher is like a breath of fresh air.  And maybe that’s another reason I haven’t changed either.  If I feel that way, as an adult with a queer circle of friends, how much a little teenage queer feel to see such a visible sister. 

That’s how I met S____.  The campest boy I’ve ever seen.  He’s up the back of the class, with the girls and does a double take when I come in the room.  He’s got locks of curly brown hair and often (I find out later) gets mistaken for a girl.  It could be anything; his high-pitched voice, his soft hands, his school scarf, plumped up and tied slightly to the side – an effort to make the drab uniform a little more dapper.  He’s glorious, and so not made for this school system.

And as soon as they’re onto student centred work, he’s talking to me.  Invoking the modern incantation of the secret gay handshake/blue star/code word etc.

“Do you like Glee Miss?”

‘Family’ pops up in the strangest of places.

Travel

I had the awesome opportunity to go to India for a work event.  I know, totally awesome. After being accosted in the women’s toilets for the third time, it was less awesome.

We all had to wear pants and shirts, so it wasn’t the clothes that gave me away (a slightly different cut here or there, but really. Linen pants and light shirts really are much of a muchness, and it’s hot over there, so light linen. I don’t bind, so should be pretty readable). They take gender very seriously over there.  I knew this, so I tried my scarf trick, and draped it gently over my head, like I am super modest.  It didn’t work, because there were enough western men buying pashminas and wearing them with such abandon that most Indians probably just think foreigners are weird.

It might have been the hair.  It’s not a short back and sides…but it’s pretty short. But even with the scarf, and lose clothes… they just knew.  I don’t walk like a girl, I don’t defer like a girl.  I don’t…something in the right way. So even though my usual butch markers were all out of whack, they still knew.  Which makes me think me feel better about myself, I think.  When I get frustrated and think it’s my own fault because I don’t look right, I realise it’s not that.  I look how I feel I am, and that feeling, that’s what doesn’t fit.  Somehow it being innate makes it feel more authentic and less like I am to blame.  In fact, it makes me feel like I am the most honest person out there.

The Script

It’s generally 14 year old boys.  They’re often functionally illiterate and school is the last place they want to be.  Even worse is being in this class. And I have entered their territory.  I’m new to them and have no authority or place in the hierarchy.  And I am up the back, where all the action happens.

I’m generally there before class starts.  Sitting. Minding my own business.  They tumble in, assert their space and look at me.  Sometimes the teacher introduces me, which is good.  The ‘Ms’ gives them a clue, if not a laugh.  But if not, it’s me…and the boys. 

As soon as they can, they’ll give me a hard look.  Perhaps lift a chin, or wave at me smugly.  I might nod back, or point to the front (where the teacher is, you know, teaching).  That’s never enough though.  Regularly, a version of this occurs:

Boy: Hey

Me: Hi

Boy: What you doin here?

Me: I’m just watching the lesson.  You should too.

(Often a pause here.  They’re still scoping me out.  This pause leads to muttered conversation with fellow boys and much pointing and giggling.)

Boy (same one, different one): Are you a boy or a girl?

The decent into chaos after this has different flavours, depending on the class, school or teacher.  Or even me.  See, I still think I don’t exist in this conversation, even though it’s about me.  Too me. And I have yet to find the right way to head it off at the pass, before I’m visible in all the wrong ways.

In the classroom

I work with several other teachers, who visit similar schools.  They’re pretty straight looking, and don’t necessarily have a ‘gender analysis’.  Which is fine – they’re good teachers and they do a good job.  But it’s difficult to take what they do and apply it.

I was in class recently with a colleague.  Both up the back, taking notes.  The kids then had a task to do, and they were moving round a bit, getting in to it.  My colleague got up and moved round, asking questions and helping out.  I was pinned to my chair. If I engage, if I break the back wall, I become visible.  And visible means a potential target. I know, it sounds paranoid.  But then:

Boy: Hey bro.

Me, Option 1: Hey.

Me, Option 2: Pull your head out of your gender normative arse and realise that just because I have short hair I am not your bro.

I take option 1.  I’ll let you know how that generally pans out next post.  It's not great.